


Unpack Your Heart

by suchabeautifuldisaster



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Post Season 2, cora is human, it's late september early october of 2013, mrs. asher is human as well, the jeep got sold so roscoe isn't on here, yes there is angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchabeautifuldisaster/pseuds/suchabeautifuldisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cora Asher's life is pretty normal until it's not. </p><p>Luckily, Stiles comes in, a stumbling whirlwind that is barely managing to hold on, and fucks everything up, and maybe finds out a little bit about himself along the way. </p><p>And he's sort of sorry about it. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Marcus Wilburn, if click your pen _one more time_ , you will be-” Mr. Keenan’s aggravated words are abruptly cut off when the door to the classroom is slammed open, revealing a very out of breath and red faced boy.  

Cora Asher raises her eyebrows and takes in the mussed up brown hair and the scatter of moles that decorate the unfamiliar face. Around her, classmates begin to whisper, a few girls behind her even tittering out a giggle or two. Three rows back, there’s the sound of a pen clicking, but apparently that annoyance has been long forgotten, because their old grump of a teacher is stumbling over to the intruder.

“Well, come on then, whoever you are,” Mr. Keenan harumphs, reaching out a large, meaty hand and grasping the boy’s hoodie covered arm. The boy’s eyes widen in shock, but lets himself be tucked into the class of doom anyway, his mouth opening to what she thinks will be “ _have you ever heard of personal space?_ ” or _“you’re cutting off the circulation to the hand that I use to jack off with!_ ”

Hey, it could totally be it.

Instead, Mr. Hoodie decides to snap his mouth shut and just look like he wants to die. It’s all over soon enough anyway, Mr. Keenan lets him go once they get to his desk. That monstrosity has inflicted loads of pain on anyone who is just peacefully walking by it. Someone even broke their foot on one of it’s deadly corners two years ago, but yet Mr. Keenan still won’t give it up. Totally makes sense in a way, since he practically is the spawn of satan in a 5’3 pornstar mustache form.

The old man’s hands flutter around his desk, his muttering a droning, buzzing sound that anyone who has taken any of his classes is unfortunately used to. Honestly, he teaches in annoyed mutters and nasal ramblings that in hindsight should put you to sleep because it’s so boring, but doesn’t because of the awful noise.

She usually doesn’t complain this much, but it’s Trig and she hates math. And Mr. Keenan, because _ugh_.

The boy heaves his backpack higher on his shoulder and opens his mouth yet again, but Mr. Keenan spins on his heel, papers in his gnarled, age-spotted hands and beats him to it.

“So, you must be Ge-Gehima-Gearhim-” her teacher tries to get out, and the boy’s eyes widen in horror, snatching the papers away from Mr. Keenan. He scans the top paper, his face twisting into one of dread, then settling onto resignation. Cora covers her mouth to stifle a laugh because Mr. Keenan looks like he wants to send the boy to the office or ask how he managed to do that so fast.

Finally, the boy tears his eyes away from the papers, and shoves them back at Mr. Keenan. “I, um, I go by Stiles. My first name is kind of a mouthful,” he says, giving a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Mr. Keenan fumbles with the papers before settling the boy with a glare. It’s one of his _you are an annoying little shit and don’t even deserve to be taught by me and my pornstache_ but all the students in the small high school are so used to it that they just roll their eyes. Stiles, though, just shrugs, his eyes pulling away from the teacher to scan the room. Immediately, he begins to head to the back, but Mr. Keenan’s nasally droll stops him.

“Oh no, as a new student I require that you sit in the front and retain as much information as possible. It wouldn’t do good for you to fall behind this late in the year,” Cora snorts at the smug expression and the movement of Mr. Keenan’s thin arms crossing over his pot belly, because really dude? _Really_?

“Bro, it’s only the third week of school,” Mark calls out, much to the amusement of the group of boys giving him high fives and laughing in the back. Sighing, Stiles’ eyes rove yet again over the tiny class, and Cora, since sometimes she’s nice, kicks out the empty chair next to her, and moves her purse to the floor. Stiles flashes her a smile that she notices yet again is very, very fake, but his shoulders slump in relief.

It’s a good thing she had done that when she did, because Stiles barely misses Mr. Keenan bowling over to Marcus and snatching him by the ear to drag him to the office. The same group of douchebags from the back boo at the sight, while a girl behind Cora heaves a heavy sigh that sounds like relief. She lets a small smile curl up at her mouth, before pulling her phone out.

While she scans through her notifications, she sneaks glances at Stiles, because, how can you not? He’s brand-spanking new to the small town with the population of 1,870 people. Maybe he’s a serial killer, or has super rich parents.

Then again, if he has super rich parents, why would they move here? This place sucks. She would know, she’s grown up here all her life. She’s totally not dropping the serial killer option, because it’s always the quiet ones. Cue creepy music and the fluorescent lights flickering off.

She rolls her eyes at herself. Maybe _she’s_ the serial killer.

The boy runs a hand through his messy brown hair, tugging at it, as if he’s not quite used to it’s length. He breathes tired, with his hoodie wrinkled and the dark circles that loom under his eyes. He twitches, his right leg constantly bouncing. His shoulders are slumped, curling himself over the desk, clenching his fingers together.

Huh. Wonder what’s his deal, Cora thinks, pursing her lips. All things aside, he is cute, in that nerdy boy way. A little too scrawny for her tastes, but she knows half the girls and quite a few boys will eat that up. He’ll have no problem here. He’s the shiny new toy.

And when the only exciting thing to do here is teepeeing teachers houses, everyone will love to have something new to play with.

*

New Boy doesn’t say a word the rest of the class, but does flinch when Mr. Keenan slams the door behind him when he comes back from the office. Unfortunately, they have homework, but fortunately, it’s only ten problems, and she sort of gets the unit that they’re on at the moment.

As soon as the bell rings, New Boy is out of his seat like a rocket, a little tornado of red hoodie and gangly limbs that barely manages to whirl himself out of the room without knocking somebody over. Already, there’s a little group trotting after him, and Cora snorts. She leaves and manages to save herself from the terrible desk of doom, much to Mr. Keenan’s disappointment. His sour attitude probably won’t last, because as she walks out the door she hears a pained yelp.

That poor soul.

“Sooo how was your favorite class?” a certain blonde chirps to her left, and Cora shoots her a glare that does nothing but cause the girl to laugh.

She bumps her shoulder with Cora’s, her short curls bobbing with the movement. “That bad, huh?”

Cora groans, reaching up to pull her hair out of it’s clasp. _So much better_. “He is literally a gremlin, Darla. Like, from that creepy furbie movie. He should be the one that gets killed in the microwave.” Darla laughs louder, bumping Cora again. “He’s not that bad. He comes to my house and gives my parents vegetables from his garden in the summer!”

The brunette’s eyes widen in horror, turning her head sharply to stare at the tiny girl. “That is so fucking weird! Please tell me you don’t eat them,” she pleads, and Darla rolls her eyes.

“Of course we do! He’s not as bad as everyone thinks, you know,” She grumbles, sounding annoyed and a tad bit hurt. Cora softens, and she wraps an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Alright, I’ll drop it.”

Darla brightens immediately, and pats the hand that’s on her shoulder. “Good.”

“He did call Carly Stone’s house ten times when she didn’t show to his class last year-”

“Cor, I will hide your kindle.”

“You would never!”

Darla raises her eyebrows at her, as if to say _oh, really_?

Cora pouts. “Fine.”

The short blonde grins victoriously, tugging her friend the rest of the way to their lockers. Once they throw their books in, Darla starts in on her usual babble. It starts from when she woke up, to something ‘interesting’ that happened while she got ready, to her mom and her brother arguing about something ridiculous over breakfast, to Chase winking or doing something stupidly adorable (everyday occurrence, they should just bang and get it over with) to Skye Allen and her clique doing something awful…

Cora nods and _“oh my god, really? ‘s”_ and _“aww”’_ s at all the right parts. It’s their routine, and Cora wouldn’t have it any other way. She doesn’t like to talk much. She’s more fond of communication where she doesn’t have to use her words at all.

Therefore, she listens.

“Oh, and did you see the new kid? His name is Steve, or Silver-” Darla trails off in confusion when Cora barks out a laugh. She narrows her eyes at her friend. “What?”

Cora shakes her head, running a hand through her hair. “It’s Stiles. You were sort of close, though,” she says lightly, a hint of amusement brimming at her tone. Darla shoves her friend, and she snorts, letting herself be moved the extra inch.

“You’re such a bitch. Anyway, Stiles. Seriously, who names their kid that? He looks more like a Kevin or a Luke.”

Cora shrugs, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. “He had a mini meltdown when Mr. Keenan tried pronouncing his actual name. He said he liked to be called Stiles.” Darla frowns. “That _is_ strange. I wonder what his actual name is.” Cora shrugs again, pushing open the cafeteria doors and slipping through.

“OOH!!” Darla suddenly squeaks, clapping her hands. “You have a class with him? What’s he like?”

Cora yawns, just to hear her friend huff in impatience behind her. She smiles, because she loves Darla a lot but she just can’t help herself. “Umm, very twitchy. Didn’t talk.”

“Seriously? That’s all you have to say? Come _onnnnn_ , Cor, work with me here,” Darla complains, grabbing two trays and handing her one. Cora rolls her eyes. “I don’t know his whole life story, dummy. He’s cute I guess.”

She really wished she hadn’t said that, because then there’s a very obnoxious, very high pitched squeal killing her ear drums. She shudders, lifting her tray up to shield her face for the verbal explosion...

“CORDELIA ROSE! Why didn’t you tell me this before?!” Darla starts prodding her in the sides with her long, manicured nails, every touch a little pinprick of pain. _Ouch ouch ouch_ , Cora moans in her head, settling on shooting her best friend a glare over the plastic monstrosity.

The short blonde just gives it back as good as she got it, because she’s used to Cora and her, as she fondly dubs it “ _evil staredown of doom_ ”.

God, she’s really got to search for another best friend. This one isn’t terrified of her _at all_.

“You know that I’ve been on the boyfriend hunt for months! This is valuable information!” She exclaims, not even looking away as she swats a boy in the back of the head for trying to cut in front of them in the lunch line. Cora shakes her head and huffs out a laugh when the boy lets out an “oomph!” of surprise before catching Darla’s cold stare. He quickly scurries out of the way, and Darla juts her chin out, smiling smugly.

“You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met,” the brunette says, finally deciding to give her tray a chance at balancing her food. She picks a slice of pizza that doesn’t seem too soggy, and reaches a hand out for the salad tongs.

“You love me. I’m the sun to the little cloud of gloom that sits on your head.” Darla extends a hand and pats said spot, even straightening out a few strands of her hair before returning her attention to the horrible selection of food.

Cora doesn’t even bother trying to be affronted. She just sighs and searches for extra carrots.

Later, when she tries to goad Darla into finally asking Chase out (because he’s been deemed worthy and Cora knows where he lives so that she can smash his tires in the middle of the night if he screws up) the blonde just gets all dopey and then refuses to answer, instead asking a million questions about new boy.

Cora rolls her eyes. When did her life become Twilight? New kid, small town, pale skin, brown hair, brown eyes, doesn’t talk, everyone’s obsessed-

Oh god. She really hopes that there isn’t vampires here. They’re so stupid.

And they _sparkle_. Go back to the jewelry store where you belong.  

Maybe Darla should hide her kindle. She’s got to stop reading trashy romances that her Mom coerces her into reading.

*

“Stiles! Get your ass down here!” Sheriff Stilinski yells from the bottom of the stairs. Stiles glares at his closed door with as much contempt as he can muster, and wishes that it could send a message to his dad that says _I hate you I’m never coming out of here because here isn’t home and we left the house that mom baked cookies and watched Breakfast At Tiffany’s on the shitty tv and played baseball in the backyard and wrestled with Scott on the couch for the xbox controller_ -

Then again, maybe he deserves this.

Maybe this is the magical man that lives in the sky’s punishment for dragging his best friend to go find a dead body in the middle of the night.

But then again, didn’t the consequences of said best friend becoming a bit more wolfy, himself being in constant danger, getting beaten up by an old dude (which he has nightmares about still) and his whole world flipping upside down and put through a blender enough?

Oh, and then there’s the disappointed and weary looks that he’s on the constant recieving end of from his Dad that put heavy weights in his heart.

 _Isn’t all of that enough_?

Nope. Apparently they had to move to the middle of nowhere because Beacon Hills _has become too dangerous Stiles, you barely passed your sophomore year and you still won’t tell me what the hell you’ve been up to and I made some calls, got the sheriff position in the town where I grew up, it’ll be nice to have a fresh, clean start_.

There was nothing Stiles could do. He did charts, he pleaded, he told his Dad that Scott couldn’t survive without him (which is very reasonable, considering all of the shit that Stiles has managed to save him from), that his whole life was here, that-

Everything he ever knew was in Beacon Hills.

His mom was buried there. He didn’t want to leave her, it didn’t feel right, it felt like the worst kind of betrayal, but he never brought it up. He wanted to. It was on the tip of his tongue, face red with anger and frustration, staring at his Dad across the dinner table, but they died before they could escape and inflict the damage he wanted.

Because his Dad looked tired. And not just the tired you get after not being able to get any sleep one night, or from a long day of work.

His Dad looked like he had been through a war, and wasn’t sure if he was going to survive the aftermath. A war that Stiles caused. A war with angry words and filmsy excuses and “I’m sorry’s” that just didn’t cut it, in the end.

Stiles was the one who got him _fired_.

So Stiles said “Okay,” and his Dad slumped in his chair and reached out a hand to rub over his son’s buzzed hair and Stiles wanted to cry.

Instead he packed up his things, hugged Ms McCall, got kissed on the cheek by Lydia (he thinks that months ago he would’ve cherished it, but now it just makes him feel a little bittersweet for what things could’ve been without werewolves), and was tackled by Scott in an embrace that he was surprised that the werewolf didn’t crack any of his ribs.

Scott promised that they would still talk and skype a lot “ _Dude, we can still play video games together, because we got the headsets!_ ” with a grin that fell flat at his eyes.

But how long would that last? When would everyday texts fade into every other week and frequent phone calls turn into once every two months and skyping be weird and awkward because Scott has Jackson and Isaac to take care of, why would he even take the time to message his old buddy Stiles-

He sighs heavily, pushing himself out of his bed, and tries to smooth out the wrinkles in his hoodie.

To be fair, Scotty has called twice since moving here a few days ago, and keeps texting him about missing Allison.

Rolling his eyes about that, because the farther away Allison and her crazy hunter family is, the better.

He grabs his backpack and heads for the door, wondering how even though he’s all the way in New York, he’s still connected to his old life.

Because Derek and Boyd are in the city,six hours away from Stillwater.

At least that’s… something.

Fuck, who is he kidding. _You got what you wanted_ , _Stiles_ he thinks bitterly to himself, ducking his head down so that he doesn’t have to meet the tired, stressed out eyes that make laser beams for his already crumbled heart.

No more supernatural creatures.

Now the only thing that will go bump in the night is the slam of the whiskey bottle on the old dining room table as his Dad stares at his wedding ring and wonders when everything got so hard.

*

Cora manages to avoid Ben aka _Mr. Ex who cheated twice and still thinks that if he stalks her long enough, she’ll fall back into his arms and tell her dignity to run the hell out of this town and don’t even bother coming back_.

She doesn’t like Bens anymore.

Or the name Ben. He’s kind of ruined the two for her.

She huffs out a sigh of relief when the boy runs a hand through his black hair and squints his eyes, trying to spot her dark hair and her black satchel. Fortunately, the little slip in the wall is just big enough for her to squeeze into and wait for the jackass’s face to settle into a pout that she used to find adorable, before stomping down the hallway and into study hall.

“Whew.” She lets her head fall back against the brick for a moment, the tiny victory curling up like a cat in her heart, before ducking out and heading for History.

She can totally handle creepy exes, but sometimes she just doesn’t have the energy.

Plus the adrenaline rush of hiding and holding her breath is spectacular. Seriously, who needs drugs?

She’s high on _life_.

Oh god, she’s turning into her Dad. That’s never a good path. She shivers at the thought, because while her Dad is the most amazing person to ever exist, he is a cheeseball of epic proportions.

Mr. Hoodie isn’t in this class with her, and she only has two more left to go, so hopefully she won’t have anything to report back to Darla by the end of the day. Seriously, that girl would want a fourteen page report on the color of his eyes.

Hell, she didn’t even _look_ at him long enough to check!

Anyway, it’s not like she’ll even need to, because there’s a group in the back that keeps giggling and whispering about “ _He even smiled at me!_ ” or “ _Stiles seems so dark and mysterious, like I can’t even_!”

Please. The boy is scared of slamming doors and his face paints a clear story of just how miserable he is.

The only mystery is why he looks like a second away from falling apart.

She shrugs to herself, because who even cares and refocuses on the passage she’s supposed to be reading. She manages to finish it and the questions that go along with it, priding herself on the fact that she’s one of few that’s even done.

By the time the bell rings and she slips out of the room, Eric chattering her ear off about a concert this weekend, it’s brown.

Well, not quite.

“ _It’s like the color of chocolate… or… amber! They’re sooo sexy_.”

Ugh. She hates everyone.

*****

Stiles’ day… well it doesn’t suck.

No. No it totally does. It one hundred percent, definitely sucks.

But it could be worse.

He thinks one of the things that bothers him the most is how normal everything is. There’s no creepy Jackson whining about how he needs to be a special snowflake, there isn’t a beauty queen slash genius slowly losing her mind but still managing to beat his ass academically, and there’s no puppydog eyed best friend to take care of so that he doesn’t die and has to remind that Harris is giving them a test on whatever day of the week.

There aren’t the wonder twins with their new wolf makeovers, strutting down that hallways and flashing a claw or two,

There isn’t a pool where he had to hold up a very angry and paralyzed alpha for two hours so that they both didn’t drown.

The library doesn’t look like it was demolished by a vengeful lizard.

The boy’s locker room doesn’t have maitanence workers grunting inside about the smashed up lockers and the busted sinks because Scott and Jackson had a temper tantrum that escalated to to destroying school property.

He can’t even help himself when he’s in his English class, eyes landing on the middle row, almost thinking that he sees a floppy haired boy offer a smiling girl a pen.

He doesn’t like to think about Allison, kind of hopes that he never sees her again, but something in him clenches at the loss of the little things he never thought he’d miss when the only things he was worried about was finding out how to manage Scott’s newfound wolf powers and try to get the most popular girl in school to notice him .

He spots a girl with long blonde curls and a leather jacket link arms with a dark skinned girl, laughing down the narrow hallway.  He almost pukes right then and there, and searches for a bathroom.

Splashing cold water on his face, he stares at his reflection in the mirror, picking out the dark circles and the lines on his forehead.

_Boyd suddenly appears out of the woods, covered in blood and the remains of his clothes barely clinging to torn skin. It takes Stiles a moment to realize that the larger boy is cradling something, no, someone in his arms._

_“No,” Derek breathes from beside him, and then he’s running, running to Boyd who doesn’t pick up his head, moving a dark hand to lightly touch blonde hair._

_As soon as Derek reaches him he stops. Stiles watches as his shoulders shake violently, his fingers curling over Erica’s cheek._

_“She’s dead,” Scott manages to say, pressing his shoulder to Stiles' ._

Stiles presses a hand to his heart, feeling it’s wild, racing beat. His breaths come out in harsh pants, and all he sees is Derek Hale falling to his knees and letting out a howl that sounds like agony. It roars in his ears, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

He has Trigonometry in a minute, maybe two.

But he stays in the bathroom for fifteen minutes trying to convince himself that he can open the door and walk out of there without wanting to see if death by slamming his head into the wall could actually work out.

*

Mr. Bald and Boring might be worse than Mr. Harris.

It’s a huge possibility.

Then again, it could be because the old dude couldn’t pronounce his name, and kept trying to anyway.

But nope, it’s because the asshole won’t let him sit in the back, away from other classmates staring at him as if he’s the newest endangered animal at the zoo exhibit.

He likes math, but he might have to consider it because of this dude.

Luckily, a girl with long brown hair not so discreetly shoves a chair open beside her for him. He could kiss her. Seriously, she’s kind of his favorite at the moment. For one, she’s not ogling him (why did Stillwater have to be a small town with an even smaller school) and seems to be pretty fed up with Mr. Baldy’s shit as much as he is.

He offers her a smile that hasn’t been genuine in months, and she raises her eyebrows in response before cracking a snort at some poor idiot who made a comment to Mr. Baldy’s comment on where Stiles should sit.

He drags out his notebook and a pencil, twiddling it between his fingers. He hunches himself over the desk, because hey, maybe if he hides his face in his arms, it’ll be like he was never even here.

He keeps his eyes open against the material of his hoodie. He never used to be afraid of the dark until he knew that angsty werewolves and crazy hunters were roaming free, and now it’s kind of ruined him when he tries to sleep.

He feels the girl’s eyes on his back, but it’s not like she’s trying to see through him and figure out the quickest way to shut him the hell up for good.

Derek Hale is very good at those.

No, it’s more of a, _I don’t quite know what to make of you, so maybe if I study the faded red color of your hoodie it’ll just spell it all out for me_.

He lets it happen.

After all, he's made his bed. 

He might as well lie in it. On his stomach, because it's uncomfortable as fuck on his back. 


	2. In Which Stiles Hates Midnight Phone calls (Maybe)

Cora can’t help but smile when she sees the familiar black pickup truck rumble into Stillwater High’s parking lot. It is a tad embarrassing that currently her rusty piece of crap that is barely an acceptable excuse for a car is getting fixed, which means one of the parental units has to give her and occasionally Darla a ride home.

Seriously, it’s the third time in four months that her car is in the shop. _Ughhhhh_.

However, her Dad blaring _Don’t Stop Believin’_ and pulling right up to the curb so that she only has to brave the rain for a few seconds is enough to wipe the annoyance away for a little while.

“Hey squirt,” he grumbles out good naturedly when she hops in, slamming the door behind her just in time for the rain to start coming down in a way that would’ve had her become a drowned rat in record time.

Cora leans to the left and tilts her cheek up so that her Dad can give her his customary _hey precious daughter of mine that I haven’t seen in six hours but it feels like forever I’ve missed you so much because I’m ridiculous_ kiss there that she’s been on the receiving end of for waaaay too long. She remembers that when she was little that she would squirm away from his stubble and laugh when he would simply shove his face closer to her cheeks and blow raspberries on her skin.

Now, she just rolls her eyes when he ends it with an obnoxious _smack!_ because he’s a goofball.

“How’s my hunk of garbage doing?” she asks dryly, settling her head against the window. She catches his amused side-eye as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“Still kicking, surprisingly. Joe said that it was a miracle it hasn’t collapsed in a shitty heap.”

Cora groans. “It really should. Save me the stress of worrying about it every day.” Her Dad lets out a guffaw, flicking on the directional.

“Tell it to someone who doesn’t have a car, squirt.” She purses her lips and glares at him in the hopes that maybe it might scare him. But nope, he doesn’t even meet her eyes.

He does grin. Smugly.

That jerk.

The car ride is filled with old rock and roll songs that her Dad, for her sake, manages to keep to a low volume, and a quiet that has never been awkward between the two of them.

It’s something she gets from her Dad. They’re listeners, not talkers, content to just ride out the silence in a way that drives Adele Asher up the wall. Cora thinks back to all the times her Mom has whined about how dull and boring they are when they won’t support her wild stories with full sentences and simply nodding or “mhm” ing. .

She loves her Mom a lot, she’s a riot, with her loud laughter and her ability to snap out witty retorts that could go on for hours, but her Dad just makes her feel peaceful.

There’s no pressure, no buildup to a conversation topic that has to be interesting.

There’s just Dad and Cora, and maybe some _ACDC_.

Just the way she likes it.

**

Cora avoids doing her homework as long as possible- which is basically an hour when all she have to occupy herself is rummaging through the kitchen for something edible (they’re takeout kind of people that stay away from actual ingredients to make food, so there is basically nothing) however she does snag a box of Honey Nut Cheerios to snack on.

There’s the tv, but Cora barely watches anything on it, preferring to catch up on her shows on her laptop.

She kind of doesn’t want to know what happens after Jordan basically laid out everyone’s dirty laundry on _Scrubs_ yet. There are nine seasons, but what if they spend it hating each others guts over sleeping with someone’s ex wife or being in love with a guy who can’t stop having meaningful conversations in his head?

Her phone gets boring after ten minutes of flicking through _Instagram_ and _Twitter_ , because as per usual, everyone is predictable and ridiculous.

So, dreaded homework. At least the kitchen table is clean, and her Dad went to go bug her Mom at the salon instead of annoying her.

She manages to read the first five chapters of _The Scarlet Letter_ and write out an outline for her paper on The French Revolution that’s due in a couple days.

The Trig homework?

Well, lets just say she’s very, very happy that she has Eric and Mikey to copy off some of the problems and get away with it.She lets out a laugh when she remembers them showing up to class one day last year, Mikey's shirt on backwards and lips swollen, while Eric's hair was out of place (a real shocker) and a huge hickey on his neck. Mrs. Kilmore had stared at them for five minutes before sending them to the office. Cora really wishes she had snapped a picture.

Eric and Mikey used to be an on again, off again fling that started their freshman year and finally stopped halfway through last summer. Mikey had finally come to the terms that he was bi, and that there was nothing wrong with it (her and Darla sat him down after he confessed at two in the morning at a party, flat out telling him to just be himself and if anyone here cared they could fuck off) while Eric just patted his shoulder and leaned in for one last kiss, because he had spotted his new object of affection and would be stuck to him in no time.

Surprisingly, it’s never been awkward for their little group after that. Eric and Mikey don’t hate each other or get jealous when the other is dating. Hell, they even boast about their conquests. Loudly. When Darla and Cora just want to sleep but apparently those two idiots have motormouth when it’s time to go to bed at sleepovers.

She’s responding to their group message about maybe camping this weekend, offering to bring tents, when there’s a slam of car doors and tinkling laughter that releases a knot in her heart that she never knew was there. It’s something that means along the lines of _yay everyone’s home I missed you both soo super much that it’s disgusting and I’ll never admit, ever because no._

Seriously, if people knew that Cora was a secret sap that basked in her parents coming home, she would never leave her room.

She would take the Cheerios with her though. For sustenance.

“Ooh, Jake, look! We should take a picture!” Her mom’s voice calls out delightedly. Cora groans. _Oh god, please, not today_ (she thinks this everyday). A woman smelling of vanilla perfume and shares Cora’s dark hair that’s swept into an artfully loose fishtail braid sweeps into the kitchen. She claps her hands together, blue eyes crackling with barely contained mirth.

“Our teenaged daughter is doing her homework!” She crosses the small room to the table and Cora is already ducking her head so that her Mom won’t check her temperature to see if she should be thrown into the loony bin. Cora’s used to this by now, but it definitely _does not_ mean that she enjoys it.

“Do you think we should alert the new Sheriff?” Adele giggles, stooping low and lifting her daughter’s face up by the chin. Cora rolls her eyes at her Mom, but can’t help the smile that stretches her lips.

Jacob’s loud work boots stomp into the room. “Nah, wouldn't want to cause him any trouble.”

“I hate you two a lot,” Cora says, trying to fix a glare that hones in on the two of them, but since Adele is all up in her personal space and trying to check her pulse to see if she’s “stable” and “not a pod person” it fails epically.

“Hmm, I guess you’re still your grumpy self,” Her Mom concludes. She runs a fond hand through her daughter’s hair, and Cora stops squirming away. Her Dad comes up behind her and wraps an arm round her waist. “She gets it from me, Addy,” he says, and presses a kiss to her ear before withdrawing.

Adele turns her head to stare at him with what Cora figures is gross heart eyes, but doesn’t say anything because her Mom had magic hands that feel awesome when they thread through her hair.

“Pizza okay for dinner?” She asks, tugging on a lock.

Cora cracks open an eye, already sort of dozing. “Sounds good to me.”

**

After a few weeks, the arrival of New Boy has died down. Cora is extremely grateful, because the giggling and the whispering is back to a minimum and Darla stops asking her if Newbie has mentioned her name in Trig.

For one: Newbie doesn’t talk. At all. He’s quiet, weirdly so, and during the class he keeps to himself and takes notes, though he does sit her to her just like his first day. She tries her best to keep her eyes away from him, but Mr. Keenan’s class of doom is the worst, and he’s the most interesting thing next to Marcus Wilburn getting kicked out of class yet _again_ for something utterly stupid. On Tuesday it was because one of his spitballs landed in Satan’s stache. As soon as the two left for their regular trip to the principal’s office, everyone laughed.

Well, Newbie didn’t. She thinks that she might’ve seen a smile, but it could’ve been a twitch.

Whatever, it’s not like she really cares.

Even though the gossip she can never stay away from threatens to make her. Cora likes to think that she is out of reach from dumb high school shit, but Darla and Eric exist in her life. There was never any chance of glorious ignorance.

“He doesn’t sit with anyone at lunch. Like, no one. He’s found a table in the back. Barely eats.”

“Skye Allen was all over him and he just got up and walked away! Can you believe it?”

“He sits in the back of every class apparently, and doesn’t talk at all. He’s a huge avoider _, HUGE.”_

Maybe Cora’s serial killer theory might actually work out.

Darla is very disappointed because she doesn’t have any classes with him except lunch, while Eric has Physics and Spanish with Newbie.

Mikey is stuck with him for gym, but her friend isn’t the type to reach out and yap at someone he doesn’t know. Actually, the bulky boy only talks to them, and no one else. So he’s out, unlike his ex.

Eric is a bubbly, happy person 24/7, always up for a chat, ears always pricked for juicy information. Cora is surprised that she hasn’t killed him yet, even though she loves him. She thinks it has something to do with her affection and the fact that Darla would smash her kindle if she ever considered the act.

He is literally Darla’s soulmate in a coiffed hair and bowtie form.  

Yes, the chirpy blonde is still devastated that he only likes dick. Cora is kind of relieved, because the two of them together would be terrifying. Mikey and her have decided that if that ever happened, they would go underground and save themselves from the apocalypse.

“OOH!” Darla suddenly squeals, eyes bouncing up from her lopsided salad and latching onto Cora. Beside her, Mikey slumps in relief, and Cora shoots him glare. He shrugs, giving her a look that’s half grateful it wasn’t him and apologetic at the fact that it wasn’t.

_Asshole_ , she mouths at him.

“You should totally ask Stiles if he wants to go apple picking with us this weekend!” The blonde exclaims, and across from Cora, Eric’s face transforms into one of delight.

_Oh no. Oh no no no no_.

Wait, maybe she misheard that.

Maybe Darla isn’t going to force her into something totally awkward that she doesn’t wanna do.

“Run that by me again?” Cora asks, raising her eyebrows. Darla leans forward eagerly, food forgotten as Eric quickly slides the tray out of the way so that her hair doesn’t fall into dressing. It happened only once and neither of them want to hear the atomic blonde’s screech of horror ever again.

As if he knows what’s running through her mind, Mikey shudders beside her.

“He should come with us! It’ll be nice to have someone new around,” Darla smiles up at her best friend earnestly.

It’s that smile.

Cora’s already screwed.

“But I don’t wannnnaaaaa,” Cora moans, pulling out her best pouty face. Eric snorts delicately, not even looking up from his phone.

“That’s cute honey. Now go do what you’ve been told,” He takes a hand away from the screen to make a “shooing” motion. Darla perches her chin on her clasped hands and if it’s even possible, smiles wider.

Mikey squeezes Cora’s shoulder. “Have fun.” She turns to give him her pout face, because maybe he’ll come with her and then he’ll just talk to Newbie and then she won’t have to do anything but stand there!

If only she was that lucky.

He just smirks at her, before reaching over and stealing some of her fries. Oh, she is _sooo_ telling his girlfriend that he hasn’t gotten anything for her birthday yet.

Soooo doing it, especially since it’s next week.

Cora pushes herself out of the bench, rolling her eyes. “Fine. Whatever. But I still don’t see why Eric can’t do it.”

“Oh, I tried. But he ran away before I could finish. I don’t think he even realizing I was gracing him with my presence.” Darla pats his arm in mock comfort, while Mikey reaches out a finger and taps at Eric’s phone, effectively messing with his twitter feed.

“Michael Anthony!” He yells, clutching at his phone, and Mikey laughs, sharing a high-five with Darla.

Shaking her head and shoving her gooey _my friends are stupid but I wouldn’t put up with anyone else_ feelings she snags her satchel and makes her way to the table in the back of the cafeteria.

The waaaaaay back.

Where no one in their right mind goes.

But hey, lets invite the Newbie that sits there. By himself.

“This is such a bad idea,” she mutters, heaving her strap higher on her shoulder.

**

When Stiles’ phone starts blaring at whatever fuck o’clock it is at night, his mind latches onto two things: _so I didn’t leave my phone in my locker and it better not be Scott butt dialing me. Or wolf-dialing me while roaming around with Jackson and Isaac_.

Unfortunately, that has happened. Several times.

Stiles groans, shoving a pillow over his head and squeezing his eyes shut, willing the stupid piece of metal to just self-destruct so that he could get back to dreamless sleep.

It had been quite beautiful, actually. For the past couple of nights, there had been no nightmares, and he felt more… normal wasn’t the word.

He’s going to go with okay.

Yeah. Okay was better.

It was as if being away from all of the issues and problems in Beacon Hills might be just what he needed.

Nah, his grudge that he holds over his Dad isn’t going away anytime soon. So he’ll just shove those thoughts into the denial pile of his brain.

Stiles lets out a grunt of relief because thank fucking god, his phone finally stopped ringing. Yes, sleep is good, sleep is just wonderful he thinks, relaxing under the covers. He twists so that he’s on his stomach, hugging the pillow to his chest-

_RIIIIINNNNNG!RINNNNNG!_

“Oh my god,” he moans into the darkness, and reluctantly shoves himself out of bed. He stumbles around, hands out and patting around, until finding that the source of the awful noise is coming from what seems to be his backpack. He fiddles it out of the inner pocket, and curses as he slides the call to accept, not even focusing on who it is.

Because it has to be Scott.

Scott, who buttdials his best friend because god forbid he can’t turn his phone off when he’s frolicking around the border of Beacon Hills, or just fuck, leave it in Jackson’s porsche-

“I need to talk to Scott,” a male voice says, grumpy and annoyed and sounding very, very familiar. Stiles blinks, his grip loosening on his phone.

It couldn’t be.

“Did your parents ever teach you any manners? For one, no hello, and second, calling times ended like, five hours ago,” Stiles manages to get out, his mind whirling. He sits down on his bed heavily, leg already bouncing.

There’s a low growl that comes through the speaker. “ _Stiles_.”

Stiles can’t help but snort at that, because yep, it’s Derek. Only he can put in that much frustration and exasperation into his name. He would call it a talent, but then that would be giving the asshole of an Alpha credit.

“Derek! How do you have the pleasure of having my number?” He might as well ask, because he doesn’t have a fucking clue as to when that ever happened. They weren’t exactly buddies during the whole werewolf extravaganza, and hell, he doesn’t think he even said goodbye to Derek and Boyd before they left for New York.

“Scott gave it to me. Now I’m going to ask this again, because you have hearing problems. _Where. Is. He_?”

Stiles is already rolling his eyes, and shoves a hand through his hair. Him and Scotty would be having words.“You know, I could hang up on you. I don’t exactly owe you anything.”

“I’ve saved your life," Derek points out in frustration, and Stiles hears a faint crunching sound of metal. He smirks. 

“Right back at ya, sourwolf.” There’s another growl, and he stifles a laugh. He’s kinda missed pissing someone off that isn’t his Dad.

He frowns, feeling the guilt crash over him like a tidal wave. He’s been trying to keep a pact with himself to not be difficult.

Well, not as difficult as he usually is. Was. Used to be.

He sighs, because he doesn’t want to be nice to Derek, the dude’s a huge prick, but…

Stiles is trying to be better. And what other way to start things off fresh by helping Alpha Douchebag?

“Look, wolfman, I don’t know where Scott is. I’m kinda not in Beacon Hills,” he says, and the words hurt coming out more than he thought it would. So much for progress. Stiles can’t see Derek’s face, but he imagines him still angry, but maybe his eyes widen in surprise. If Derek even has that emotion, the freaking dramatic robot.

“Oh. I’ll go then,” Derek says, sounding indifferent, and for some reason Stiles doesn’t want him to hangup. Because this little phone call, as stupid and aggravating as it is, makes him feel like his whole life hasn’t been flipped upside down.

Like old times. Minus the shoving and the death threats.

He lets himself fall back against the covers. “Wait! Don’t. What did you need?”

Stiles stays up till three a.m., researching a particular type of ghoul because apparently Derek hasn’t bought a computer, and Boyd uses the ones at school for homework. He doesn’t find out too much, but he does discover a certain herb that if used properly, should ward them off for an extended amount of time.

Derek doesn’t thank him, doesn’t even say why he needs the information. Then again, Stiles kind of didn’t expect him to, though it does bug the shit out of him.

The alpha does say “bye” and at least that’s something.

“Still an asshole,” Stiles mutters to himself, closing his eyes.

No nightmares again. He’ll count that as a personal win, and a very kickass punch to Gerard Argent’s face.

**

Stiles isn’t a people person.

Like, at all.

Which kind of, no, _really_ sucks when he’s moved to the other side of the country and the only person he knows is labeled as Dad. And currently not one of his favorites at the moment. But he thinks that goes both ways, if he’s being brutally honest with himself.

However, his Dad called him kiddo when he dropped Stiles off at school today. He’ll count that as something, and the smile he flashed back at the Sheriff felt more real than it had in awhile.

They were getting better. Baby steps.

Anyway, he has no friends here. None, zippo. It could have something to do with Stiles not putting himself out there, introducing himself, and actually letting other classmates talk to him.

They had tried. The first two weeks were a mix of groups following him from class to class, mostly whispering and full-on staring at him, while a few bravely stepped up and told him their name. Of course he doesn’t remember any of them, and he had kinda just nodded and then rushed to the next class. Gotta feed the noggin and all that.

Oh, who was he kidding. He’s been sabotaging himself since he arrived here, and maaaaaybe comparing every face and personality to Scott and the ragtag pack that he used to belong to. No one had his best friend’s puppydog eyes, or Erica’s perfectly curled hair, or Lydia’s victorious smile…

He sighs, picking at his tray. He’s noticed that his Dad has been picking up on the lack of social interaction as well. He doesn’t ask too many questions at dinner, just how his day was and if he had homework. Both were one word answers, and then the meal just went quiet after that. As part of Stiles _I’m Not A Problem Anymore_ Stilinski, he never tries to crack his Dad open about cases he’s been working on. He doesn’t search for his Dad’s police radio, and leaves the room when he sees the Sheriff looking over files at the table.

He hasn’t even seen the station. He’s not sure if he wants to.

All he does is go to school, ride the bus home, do homework, eat dinner (sometimes with his Dad, depending on his shift), stare at the tv, skype Scott, and then go to bed.

Derek hasn’t called since the other night, and Stiles is trying to figure out if he’s relieved or disappointed.

He’s missed the adrenaline rush that comes with chasing and being chased by the supernatural. Scott fills him in as much as he can, but Stiles isn’t there, he doesn’t see Isaac filling Jackson’s expensive loafers with dirt and shoving them in his gym locker to find. He doesn’t see Lydia doing three cartwheels in a row before ending on a backflip in Scott’s backyard to prove a point that while she's not a werewolf, she's still pretty incredible when she needs to be.

He’s not there anymore, and it sucks.

So maybe he’s wallowing. A little.

Suddenly there’s movement from the other side of the table he’s currently sitting at (all by himself, because he’s just that awesome) and a whiff of lavender. His head snaps up from his fingers tearing at the styrofoam to see the girl from his Trig class.

From what he’s picked up on, she doesn’t seem like a happy person. More on the grumpy side, but not horribly so. A little like him in a way, just annoyed with life. She flips her long hair over one shoulder, and studies him for a moment with wide hazel eyes he’s never noticed before.

Actually, she’s pretty, with long eyelashes and full lips. _Huh_.

Not that it really matters right now, with the emotional trauma and the heartbreak of getting over Lydia Martin still weighing over him. Still, he can appreciate attractive people. And she _is_ attractive, even if she looks seconds away from slapping him.

Which, rude, he hasn’t even done anything to her.

“My name’s Cora,” she finally says, and while her face doesn’t lose its icy expression, she holds out a hand for him to shake. He eyes it warily, before slipping his own into her grip. Her skin is warm, and her touch is gentle when she moves her hand in his own before letting go.

“Stiles,” he responds, giving her a half smile. She tracks the action carefully, as if recognizing something. He raises an eyebrow.

“Sooo, is there something you needed? Or?” He asks, and Cora snaps her attention back, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“Look, how does apple picking sound? Saturday, at Mel’s Orchard?”

Stiles frowns in confusion. “You guys do that here? For fun?” Cora huffs out a laugh, running a hand through her hair.

“Since the mall’s an hour and a half away, and we’re in east bumfuck, yep. It’s not so bad.”

Stiles nods, blinking. He totally forgot about that. Ugh. Why did his Dad have to grow up in the middle of nowhere, and then decide to move back here, of all places?

Apple picking doesn’t sound terrible though. Even if it just sounds like… going to go pick apples off of trees. And then… do they bring bags? Does he stuff them in his pockets? Does he have to pay for said apples?

What if he only picks three?

At least it’ll get him out of the house.

He scratches at his face, meeting her eyes for the first time. _She’s not judgy_ , he thinks _. More curious than anything else. Maybe even a tad bored_.

“Who else is going?”

Cora’s shoulders loosen just a tad, her face softening just enough so that he doesn’t feel so caged in. She doesn’t turn her head, instead jabs a finger towards the left.

“See the blonde waving and a huge guy looking like he wants to die?” Cora deadpans, and Stiles gives her a weird look, because there’s no way in hell she would know that-

He spots them in seconds, along with a latino version of a ken doll glued to his phone. Stiles waves back. Awkwardly. Even from here, he can see the cute blonde beam back at him.

“You know, it’s kind of creepy how you knew that,” He says, half amazed. Stiles pulls his eyes back to Cora, who just shrugs. She reaches out and steals one of his chips like it’s something she does all the time. _Oh helllll no_. No one steals Stiles’ chips. Scott gave up on that feat a long time ago. He shoots her an incredulous look that she merely raises her eyebrows in challenge, chewing.

_Play nice Stiles, one of the parts to moving on with your life is getting friends. Think of Pops and how much less he’ll worry because he’ll think you’re normal again_. Stiles breaks the stare and goes back to tearing at his tray.

“They’re predictable. I’ve known those idiots since third grade," she shrugs, but he watches the spark of pride that flicks across her face, so quick that he almost wonders if it was even there in the first place.

“Oh,” he nods, as if that explain everything. It kind of does, because he literally has a list in his head of all of Scott’s facial expressions and what they mean. Cora stands up, grabbing her satchel.

She holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

“Why?” He asks, narrowing his eyes at her. Cora glares at him, and woah, that’s something he  hasn’t been on the receiving end of in quite some time.

How cute. Really.

It’s even _adorable_ because it scares him enough so that he’s grudgingly rummaging around in his backpack. And he thought he’d gotten away from pushy people. He tugs out his phone and passes it to her. She smirks. He fights the urge to stick his tongue out at her.

“What are you doing, anyway? Giving me your digits?” He wiggles his eyebrows at Cora, and watches as her lips twitch and glares at him harder. _Score one for Stilinski_ , he thinks smugly.

She finishes tapping at his screen, and then gives him his phone back. “Mine and my friend’s numbers.”

Stiles examines for himself the names and numbers, wonders if these people will fade into a one time hangout or actual friends he’ll create new memories with. He feels conflicted, because a part of him wants this new start and knows that _he should just take the fucking olive branch, Stiles_ …

But another part, sad, and angry, devastated that his whole world has been destroyed, just wants to hide in self-pity forever.

“Thanks,” he forces himself to say, locking his phone. The girl almost smiles at him, nods in satisfaction, and then spins around on her heel to leave.

“Oh! By the way, you sit with us at lunch now. This is pathetic, Newbie,” She says, flashing him one last raised eyebrow before walking away.

Stiles’ mouth gapes open like a fish before sputtering “That’s not my name!”

Dammit.

_Minus a thousand points for_ Stilinski, he thinks, shaking his head.

Well, at least he won’t be the loner who sits by himself anymore.

He wonders how Boyd did it for so long, and something like guilt twists in his stomach.

**

_Darla Michaelson (11:17): hiii stiles! we r on our way to get u. 11:30 ok? :):)_

Stiles raises an eyebrow at the smiley faces, because she can’t be that excited to pick up his skinny ass to go apple picking. Then he remembers her dragging him by the hand to their lunch table the next day, her smiling mouth babbling a mile a minute about how she almost had a heart attack when Mr. Abare gave her a 57 on her AP French exam, only to go up to him later and find out that it had been a joke (she had giggled, he probably would’ve strangled the guy).

When he thinks about it, she kind of _is_ the epitome of sunshine, complete with perfectly bouncy blonde curls, and immaculate pink lip gloss that sparkles. It reminds him of Lydia and all the steps she took to look uncontrollably gorgeous each day. Not that he would watch her put her makeup on everyday during Biology in ninth grade… nope. Never did that, no matter how many times Scott would whine about Stiles never listening to him because his eyes were glued to the way Lydia’s tube of lipstick would glide over her full lips.

Ah, well that’s great to know he can look back on that now and not feel like his heart just got squished by one of the redhead’s stilettos. Now his heartbreak just feels like after him trying to say hi to her and she would just breeze by him like she hadn’t heard a thing.

Painful, soul crushing, hope-trampling. But manageable.

Hmm. Good times.

He was convinced that during the first few minutes of Darla’s babble that he’d want to kill her. But for some reason, her chirpy voice is soothing, and she also radiates sunshine. He seriously wonders how her and Cora are friends, what with the brunette’s evil glares that contend with one extra-douchey alpha werewolf and the attitude of I could punch you in the junk at any moment.

Anyway, lunch isn’t as awkward as he thought it was going to be. Well, it’s still awkward, because he doesn’t know these people, and they scream the vibe you are an outsider and your skin is so pale that it reflects the sun and hurts our eyes…

Why couldn’t he have his Dad’s naturally tanned skin? He loves his Mom, but _come on_.

Eric wiggled his fingers at him in a wave before returning is undying attention to his iphone, which as snarked by Big Shoulders, is “his mini Beyonce”. The coiffed boy merely raised an eyebrow, not even pulling his dark eyes away from the screen. Cora had snorted, flicking her straw at Big Shoulders. Darla shook her head at the two when he had gnashed his teeth playfully at the plastic, while Cora just ended up shoving it into his mouth.

All in all, they weren’t terrible. Seriously, he could’ve been stuck at the table to the right of them, with a kid that couldn’t stop chewing at his binder when his sandwich was right there, weirdo and the group of kids who will probably major in Spitballs and Other Objects I Can Fling At Unsuspecting Victims.

They had tried interrogating him for the first ten minutes, but when he basically had to lie every other sentence: _so, what brings you here to Stillwater? Stiles: “Well, apparently me costing my Dad his job and getting involved with werewolves, he decided we need a change of scenery because he thinks I’m the worst son EVER. It’s a really cool title, actually, there’s a statue and award winning prizes such as disappointed looks and your Dad sneaking into your room at night, just to check and see if you’re still there._

Yeah. Lets just say he doesn’t want to talk about himself. At all. Besides, if he actually told the truth, they’d probably think he was crazy and then he’d be back at the table all by himself.

He does tell them that he came from a small town in California, and that no, he has never seen snow. That’s apparently a tragedy, because there’s a collective gasp and even a surprised raise of brow from Miss Grumpy herself. He supreses an eyeroll because to him it’s just whatever. He’s seen Christmas movies, he doesn’t get the big deal. When Stiles dares to mention that fact, Big Shoulders (whose name is apparently Mikey?) looked like he was going to have a heart attack. Darla looked like she wanted to cry, and Eric actually pulled his eyes away from his phone and said “Thank god, I’m more of a ‘stay inside’ person. Besides, getting snow inside your shoes is disgusting!”

Cora had then flicked a gummy bear at him, and told him to suck it up or else she’ll do a repeat of last year. His dark brown eyes had widened in horror at that, and he quickly shut up, much to the amusement of Darla and Mikey.

To say this little trip would be interesting is probably the understatement of the year.

_Oh well_ , he thinks, standing up when he spots an obnoxiously large red pickup pull into his driveway.

At least he knows he’ll come back in one piece.

He tries and fails to decide if that’s relief or sadness that appears after that thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, judge me. I give you full right.

**Author's Note:**

> there will be more to this!
> 
> and i know you guys may not believe me because of hold on!
> 
> honestly for that one i might just randomly post the scenes i have for it if you guys want it.
> 
> my tumblr is shaniacantdance, and i promise i'm not a meanieface.
> 
> though i do tend to hate jeff davis. oopsies. 
> 
> I do not own anything.


End file.
